


Crux

by dragonofdispair



Series: Across the Great Divide [7]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: AFTERCARE FOR EVERYONE, Aftercare, Awkward Sex, BDSM themes, Canon-Typical Violence, Crimes And Criminals, Families of Choice, Implied Violence, Implied/Referenced Torture, Kink Negotiation, M/M, Minor Character Death, Non-Sexual Bondage, Non-Sexual Kink, Non-Sexual Submission, Overstimulation, Poetry, Police, Rebel Groups, Relationship Discussions, Sabotage, Safewords, Sensory Deprivation, Smuggling, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, Top-Drop, families, immobilization kink, mafia, non-sexual bdsm
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-21
Updated: 2016-08-26
Packaged: 2018-06-03 12:56:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 13,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6611431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonofdispair/pseuds/dragonofdispair
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In climbing or mountaineering, a crux (plural: cruxes) the the most difficult section of a route, or the place where the greatest danger exists.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Rizobact](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rizobact/gifts).



> These are all short stories in the same ‘verse as _Mountains_ and _The Mountain in Labor_ , which are currently refusing to expand into longer stories. They are posted as I finish writing them, and as such are in no particular order.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Takes place between chapters 1 & 2 of _The Mountain in Labor_ : Jazz confronts Titanium.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'ed by 12drakon and Darth Krande

Titanium was a practical sort, Jazz had to admit as he stormed through door of the manor.

It wasn’t really a manor. Its entrance was in the basement. The basement was in one of Titanium’s (not Jazz’s, because Jazz wouldn’t touch its ownership with an Iaconi ceremonial spear) apartment buildings. That basement entrance led to a bunker: a _nice_ bunker, featuring three-berthroom living space.

Titanium called it a manor, but then it was the tradition that all Family boltholes -- especially the one inhabited by the Family Sire -- were called manors, no matter how little that word actually fit. Word had been applied to a _lot_ of things that didn't fit it, from one of Polyhex's Towers -- yes, the entire Tower -- to jail cells if the Sire had enough influence to receive visitors there, to (in  a rather amusing story with only a few people alive who could still confirm or deny) a packing crate. Titanium's was a three-berthroom apartment inside a fallout bunker under an apartment building.

Jazz saw the guards, but he ignored them. They eyed him as he passed, taking in his dancer's grace (which he'd gotten back in Polyhex, learning something that only vaguely resembled dancing, and the guards could tell) and his monumentally bad mood. Fingers twitched towards subspace pockets and transformation seams unlocked as they reached for weapons. But Jazz was Family. More importantly, he was _family_ , and they let him pass without challenge.

He stalked into his uncle’s office and the Family’s Sire dismissed both the guards and the Cousin with a wordless commburst. All three filed out while Jazz glared into Titanium’s much calmer opic band.

“You had no right,” Jazz hissed as soon as the office door closed.

“Jazz,” Titanium said calmly, but Jazz interrupted _him_ with a sharp commburst that contained nothing but an expression of his nephew's temper. He didn’t even flinch, nor did his expression harden in response. “Jazz,” he started again, more firmly, “Secrets may be inevitable for our family, but your beau would not have appreciated this one being kept much longer.”

“You had,” Jazz repeated, “ _no_ _right ta interfere_.”

Now Titanium stood, the barest spark of his molten temper lurking in his gold visor. “ _I_ am this Family’s Sire. It is _my right_ to interfere in whatever I feel necessary. I have no quarrel with your police officer, nor do I take issue with your choice of mate, Jazz, but I was not going to let him go any longer without a warning against _betrayal_.” His expression softened when Jazz reeled back, engine growling at the word. “Especially not when it would be you he’d be betraying. None of us wants you to go through that again.”

Jazz looked stricken and Titanium came around to embrace his much younger family member.

“Prowl ain’t like that,” Jazz whispered in his uncle’s embrace. “Might arrest me, but he ain’t going ta... that.” He wished he could summon more certainty in his voice, because he was _sure_ about Prowl, but he’d been sure about Tangerine too and that had ended… badly.

“If that is true,” Titanium soothed, “then he has nothing to fear from us.”

Jazz didn’t want to be soothed by his uncle’s promises, but he was. He was out, not involved with anything illegal, but sometimes police could be tricky about past crimes or about what Jazz knew or didn’t know about his family’s activities. And Prowl was… kinda a stickler for the rules. Not prejudiced against him or his people, but he followed the speed limits unless it was an emergency. Stuck to his lanes of traffic. Frowned at Jazz’s occasional flaunting of the rules. Sure he hadn’t gone ballistic over whatever he’d seen at the block party, but those were strangers, not his own prospective mate.

“He’s gonna dump me,” he sobbed into his uncle’s shoulderplate. He hadn’t sobbed in _vorns_ , but he was terrified. He didn’t want to lose Prowl to something that was, mostly, in the past. “He’s gonna arrest me, then he’s gonna dump me.”

 And as much as he wanted to, now that he wasn’t enraged, he couldn’t blame Titanium -- this was a secret that couldn’t be kept forever. Better it came out now, before it looked like Jazz had been _trying_ to hide it, before he had to tell any lies.

 “You know I will help in the case of an arrest. Nemoral will be thrilled to have an easy case for once,” Titanium said, and Jazz gave a watery chuckle. Nemoral was one of the highly-priced defense lawyers his uncle kept on retainer. “And if the family you were born to is the reason he cannot have a relationship with you, then he is not worthy of you.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Takes place between ch 1 & 2 of _Mountains_ : Their first time interfacing does not go as planned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'd by 12drakon and Darth Krande

Prowl arched beneath Jazz, who took that as permission to nibble on his lover’s bumper. Prowl keened in pleasure. Together their fans whirred loudly, only barely drowned out by roars of their engines.

“Wanna make you feel good,” Jazz murmured against the plating beneath him, vibrations sending tingles along his neural systems, just barely on the edge between pleasure and pain.

“Now,” Prowl begged, opening his legs wider. He  _ wanted _ , and he bucked, trying to capture his lover’s spike in his valve.

Jazz evaded Prowl’s efforts to make him spike him  _ now _ . “A moment longer,” Jazz ran his fingers over the moist folds of mesh around the valve opening. “Don’t want to hurt you.” And if he thrust into his lover without even a bit of preparation, he could. He didn’t want that at all.

The soft touch, so close to what he needed, but  _ not enough _ , finally tipped the balance between pain and pleasure in Prowl’s glitched neural net. His keening turned to pain, his writhing became frantic from a real need to get away.

Jazz practically leapt off the berth, and he was relieved to see Prowl’s struggles ease. He curled up on the berth and keened softly. Their fans still whirred, but Jazz ignored his arousal. Jazz’s visor helpfully informed him of Prowl’s temperature and EM output. Sensor horns picked up the engine-vibrations of a mech who was still  _ very _ aroused… but he didn’t touch. “Prowl? You here with me?”

“Yes,” the mech’s voice was frustrated, but not pained, which made Jazz sigh in relief.

“What do you need?” He realized the instant it was out of his mouth that it was probably a stupid-sounding question, but he needed to ask.

“Don’t leave!” was Prowl’s immediate response, and it nearly broke Jazz’s spark to hear the desperation behind it, to think that Prowl had been abandoned by lovers when this had happened in the past.

“Ain’t going nowhere,” Jazz soothed. His own arousal was an insistent buzz on his processor, but the thought of leaving Prowl even long enough to deal with it was repugnant. “What else do you need?”

Prowl keened. “I’m sorry. I can’t,” he made an uncertain, aborted gesture to Jazz’s still-extended spike. Jazz’s vision flashed red, and he had to throttle back his engine before he growled angrily.

“Ain’t what I asked,” he said gently instead. “Come on Prowl. Talk ta me. What do  _ you _ need?”

“Sensor reset,” Prowl whispered. “Heat. Dump the charge. Cleanser’s easiest.”

“Gotcha,” Jazz gave him a carefree smile. “Bath or shower preferable?”

Prowl blinked slowly. “Bath.”

“Kay. You want me to go fill the tub?”

Jazz could see that some of Prowl’s usual control was returning to his optics. He was still curled up, trapped between pain and insistent arousal, on the berth, but his voice was steady when he said, “Please, if it’s not any trouble.”

“No trouble at all. Back in a flash.” Jazz rolled off the berth and bounced with every appearance of cheerfulness to the wash room.

He had a bath/shower combination unit, so he turned on the cleanser and flipped on the shower. He ducked under it until it began to heat up. It really was the fastest way to dump a charge, Prowl was right about that. It only took a few seconds for the excess electricity to flow away and for his spike to retract. When the cleanser heated, he switched it to the regular faucet and began filling the tub.

That would take about three breems to fill, and there was no reason for Prowl to be alone that long.

Prowl was still curled up, optics off, while he vented slowly. It looked like he was trying to bring his systems back to something approaching normal. Gingerly, Jazz sat on the edge of the berth, well out of touching distance. “Bath’s filling. How hot’s hot?”

Optics flipped on so fast they flickered. “Jazz?” He took in the closed up spike cover and the lack of arousal in his lover’s vital signs. “That was fast.”

“Cleanser’s fastest, like you said. Come on, don’t make me repeat every question I ask ya.” Jazz softened the teasing with a gentle flick of his EM field against Prowl’s.

“Boiling is fine,” Prowl said with a responding flick. “Steaming at least. I expected you to…” He made a gesture with one hand that in any other situation would have been insulting. Watching Prowl shyly use it so he wouldn’t actually have to say the word  _ masturbate _ was sorta cute, in a prudish Praxan sort of way.

“Naw,” Jazz said casually, though the idea turned his fuel tank. “That’d take too long. Didn’t want to leave you alone, so I just took a spin through the cleanser while it was still cold.”

That seemed to rob Prowl of any coherent response; he just stared at Jazz.

A moment later his optics switched off again and his ventilations evened back out into those long, controlled breaths that meant Prowl was trying to calm his systems.

The fact that Prowl’s systems weren’t cycling down was starting to worry Jazz. Prowl was close to overload, but in no shape to be touched. It was stressing his systems, and all Jazz  _ could _ do was grit his teeth and monitor Prowl’s deep in-vents while he waited. Frustration crawled through his circuits, and he clenched his fists to keep himself from reaching over to offer comfort.

“Could I make a request,” Prowl’s voice almost made Jazz jump, he had been so focused on feeling frustrated and on  _ not touching _ .

“Anything,” Jazz promised.

“If it’s not too much trouble, could you sing?”

Jazz broke out in a grin, relief spreading through his wires like the first sip of high-grade. Something he could do to help! “That definitely ain’t any trouble at all. What do you want me to sing?”

“Rain~” Prowl sang awkwardly, “~in the seas.”

_ “Rain in the seas,”  _ Jazz took over the song and was profoundly relieved to see Prowl’s doorwings relax almost immediately, as though the sound of his voice had managed to ease some of the pain he was in.  _ “Rain over red rust — you etched your love right into my spark — and it burns like the acid — of rain…” _

For almost the entire three breems, Jazz sang to the beat of his lover’s slow venting.

When Jazz went to turn off the water, he came back to find Prowl levering himself up off the berth. Worriedly Jazz hovered nearby, wanting to help but not sure if he should. It was a good thing he was, too, because Prowl wasn’t able to walk more than a step. When he wobbled, a step from the bed, Jazz didn’t really think. He just yanked the blanket off the berth and wrapped Prowl in it before steadying him.

Prowl tensed up, expecting the intense pain of plating-contact, but the blanket dulled it to a warning ache. “Thank you,” he said. He didn’t even know what part he was most thankful for, just that Jazz had stayed, Jazz had helped, Jazz wasn’t angry with Prowl for this disaster of an evening…

Jazz tilted his head, light gleaming mischievously off his visor, and gave him a crooked smile. “Pit of a first time, yeah?”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The song Jazz sings in ch 2 of Crux: _Rain in the seas - Rain over red rust -_

Rain in the seas  
Rain over red rust  
You etched your love right into my spark  
and it burns like the acid  
of rain~

Together we sailed the ruby sea  
Together we sailed Sea of Rust  
Saw the world  
Saw the stars  
From the tallest spire   
To the deepest darkness of Primus’ embrace  
Together we sailed, though the rain~

I’ve never loved anyone the way I loved you  
I’ll never love anyone the way I loved you

It was raining when you left  
And it broke my spark  
You scattered the pieces to the furthest stars  
When you drove away  
Into the rain~

Rain in the seas  
Rain over red rust  
You etched your love right into my spark  
and it burns like the acid  
of rain~


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Far in the future of the current timeline: Ratchet cares for the survivors of Praxus.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> beta'ed by 12drakon and Darth Krande

Most of the survivors had been pulled from bunkers and basements. Which, Ratchet thought sourly, meant that more Polyhexians — with their cultural preference for underground spaces — had survived the Decepticon attack on Praxus than Praxans had. When the Decepticons had attacked, the Polyhexian ghetto had been riddled with basements and crawl ways and bunkers, which had been stuffed full of civilians, while the Praxan frametypes had died in their towers.

Of course he didn’t resent their survival; what he resented was the ones who’d died. He resented that there were so  _ few survivors _ . Nearly three-hundred Polys had been pulled from the rubble by Autobot search parties; only a third that many Praxans had been recovered. Too few, no matter how Ratchet counted it, and it  _ pissed him off _ .

Seething, he checked over the survivors. Most of them were still unconscious, or shellshocked. Polys clung to each other and clustered around their still-injured companions. The crowded tent irritated Ratchet, but he didn’t kick them out or yell. Even the ones who didn’t have any  _ physical _ injuries were still patients, and they needed to stay together.

Still it was exasperating, the way they got in his way and clogged up the medtent. Grumbling, he moved on to the next unconscious patient, a black and white Praxan. Policemech.

Fortunately, he was recovering as best as could be expected. Ratchet noted his progress into the still-unknown mech’s medical file and absently patted the mech’s plating as he moved on. 

At least he tried to. His hand was caught in the claws of a Polyhexian warframe before he could actually touch the Praxan. He looked up into the mech’s green visor and bristled. He opened his mouth to tell this  _ slagger _ exactly where he could stick his hands —

“Apologies, medic,” the mech interrupted the impending tirade, speaking with a deep, implacable voice. “My name is Spear. It is not my intention to interfere with you, but this one should not be touched.”

Ratchet snatched his hand back; the warframe let it go. They sized each other up. The mech settled back into his spot, out of the medics’ way, somehow managing to loom and fade into the background at the same time. Ratchet, who was the Prime’s own medic before the slag hit the fans, recognized a professional bodyguard when he saw one. He killed the tirade; it would have no effect on this mech.

“Why not?” he snapped crankily instead. “And I need a name for his medical records.” 

“Police Lieutenant Prowl, fourth district, Homicide,” the bodyguard answered, with only the faintest traces of his Polyhexian accent. “And I do not know why. Only that we are to keep our distance. No closer than the length of our arms, plus an additional hand’s length, and do not under any circumstances touch his plating unless he is the one to bridge the distance. It is a rule we have followed for vorns, and the reason I am here: to ensure its observance while he is among strangers.”

_ Why does a Poly bodyguard — Family if I’m any judge — care about a police officer? _ was on the tip of Ratchet’s vocalizer as he updated the mech’s medical chart with the name. Then he noticed that several small groups of Polyhexians had clustered around Prowl, just as they clustered around the still-unconscious members of their own community. He hadn’t noticed, because those others were close enough to touch the mech they clustered around. Ratchet kept having to shoo them away to let the injured mechs rest. But those around Prowl kept that polite distance. They were staying away from the other Praxans, but not Prowl. They crowded into his personal space as they crowded the plating of other members of their community. Ratchet just hadn’t noticed because they weren’t  _ touching _ his patient and getting in his way.

“Fine,” he huffed without asking.

Spear nodded. “Additionally, while I acknowledge it is not necessarily my place, I would suggest moving Prowl, if possible, over there,” the bodyguard pointed to one of the largest clusters of Polyhexians, around a still-unconscious black and white mech who was  _ definitely _ Family, with three bodyguards hovering over him. Iacon didn’t have as much of a problem with Polyhexian smugglers as other places did, but this one had an outstanding warrant here, and it was only because they couldn’t  _ afford _ to expend the resources to pry him away from the bodyguards and transfer him away from the refugee camp and into the main, secure, hospital that he wasn’t locked up. Ratchet gaped. 

_ “Why the frag would I do that? _ ” Ratchet hissed viciously. He’d kept that mech away from the other patients, especially the surviving Praxans. It was only because of the very limited space in the refugee camp that they were in the same tent at all. And he couldn’t exactly stop the Polys from clustering around him, no matter how dangerous he was. He wasn’t moving a  _ police officer _ over there. 

“He’s right,” said one of the nearby Polyhexians. Friz, according to the name she’d given upon waking. A pair of twin younglings clung to each other and her as they slept. “They should be able to see each other, when they wake up.”

“Could move the other wing-backs over there too,” said another, a youngling on the cusp of adulthood who clung to a sleeping sparkling. Unrelated, but they were both orphans and Ratchet wasn’t about to take them from each other if that worked out for them. “You remember what he always said: all of Praxus is Clan.”

“Never truer than now,” said another.

Ratchet gaped as the mechs talked, back and forth in a murmur of sound that rose and fell with each new point made until some sort of consensus was made. “They’re ours,” said an elderly mech, the other mechs nearby murmuring soft agreements. “You should move them over there.”

“No,” Ratchet barked. He didn’t have any control over the conscious Polyhexians, but he wasn’t moving anyone close to that dangerous knot of  _ criminals _ . 

One of the younger mechs silently stood and went over to the main knot of mechs, threading his way through the crowd.

He spoke to one of the mechs over near the black and white mech, who broke away to return with the youngster, one of the bodyguards following. “I’m Ricochet. Until Jazz wakes up,” he said, “I can speak for Slink’s Clan. What’s the problem here?”

“The medic won’t move Prowl over to Jazz,” said Friz.

“And we want the other wing-backs moved over there with us too,” said the youngster who’d fetched Ricochet. “They should be with the rest of us.”

For a moment Ricochet looked overwhelmed: not a criminal authority, but a young mech who suddenly found himself saddled with too much responsibility. Finally, he nodded. “Friz is right. Prowl’s ours. He should be with his kin. He an’ Jazz’ll need ta see each other when they wake up. An’ Prowl… Praxus is his. We are Praxus, all’a us.” Ricochet made a sweeping gesture that included both the Polyhexian and Praxan frametypes. “We need ta stick together.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Optimus Prime and a secret meeting in a darkened warehouse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbeta'ed

As a former dockworker, Optimus was no stranger to smuggling. He’d never participated himself, of course, but in the last few vorns before the Decepticons started shaking up the political structure, a mech reporting that there was something a bit off about those crates had been as suspected as the shipmaster and it had just been easier to ignore the discrepancies. So he’d seen things no noble-raised Prime could imagine.

Was this, the thought with a small spark of amusement towards the core of the planet, Your reason for choosing a dockworker?

Not that Primus couldn’t have more than one reason for everything he did.

“Well… Prime himself,” a voice suddenly said out of the darkness of the warehouse. His new contact, just as he’d been warned to expect. “Quite the honor.”

Optimus grabbed Ironhide’s weapon-hand before any guns made an appearance. Moonshadow hadn’t been prone to theatrics, and that had lured his guard into a sort of complacency, but Optimus had seen these meetings before. Bodyguards and snipers and tests of loyalty and veracity were standard affairs. These mechs put life and spark on the line any time they met with someone outside their own carefully vetted circles. With law enforcement, Decepticons, and other criminals only the top of the list of dangers such careless trust could bring down on them… well he didn’t want Ironhide’s zealousness making his contact  _ jumpy _ .

“Moonshadow didn’t tell you who his contact was?” he answered the shadow.

“Moonshadow,” the voice cracked, grief an almost physical presence it was so thick, “died, in Praxus. His designated heir is too young and passed his Key to me when I suggested combining what’s left of the Praxus routes with the Iacon ones.”

Optimus paused, puzzled that out for a moment. He knew he was dealing with a Polyhexian smuggler, and because of the negotiations with the Praetor of Polyhex that had first put him in touch with Moonshadow for this task, he also knew that the Polyhexian smugglers considered themselves all related, descendants of a single folk-hero in the city’s mythic past. He’d thought that to be an affectation, something they did to legitimize themselves, but that had been real grief when this mech had said Moonshadow’s name. Taking a chance he said, “I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Thanks,” the smuggler responded, once again in control. “This the relief shipment for Polyhex?”

“Yes. It’s all here. And those crates,” He gestured to the other crates, the ones that didn’t have energon and medical supplies, “are your payment.” The Praetor had been very clear on that: Family smugglers didn’t do anything for those outside their family for free, even if this ‘payment’ was nothing more than a polite fiction — weapons, that the smuggler was going to take and ‘sell’ to the Polyhexian military for some other, equally fictitious price.

A small Polyhexian mech stepped out of the shadows, followed closely by a Praxan. Black and white, double monochrome… Optimus’s vision temporarily swam with visions from the Matrix, images flashing through his processor so quickly it was impossible to register and he was left behind with only the certainty that these two mechs were  _ important _ . “M’name’s Jazz,” the mech said. “Ain’t a secret. Megatron should know who his enemies are.”

“Prowl,” the Praxan beside him simply said.

“A pleasure to meet you both,” Optimus said honestly. Of course he knew the names of the leaders of the Praxan refugees. It had given him hope, amid the bleak despair of knowing they were all that was left of a  _ city state, _ to watch them pull together and work hard to reestablish a sense of community and culture, even if one of two leaders was still wanted in Iacon for a millennia-old crime — for weapon smuggling, ironically enough given their current situation. “You know my name already, but this is business. I’m Optimus Prime.”

Jazz gave him a crooked smile as he looked over the goods with a practiced eye. Prowl watched the Prime and Ironhide calmly, but Optimus could see his grief and rage. The mech had been a police officer, he remembered, and it was heartbreaking to know that destruction had driven Prowl to this. Jazz had the single optic band that was common among his frame type, but Prowl’s optics clearly showed the rage and pain and determination that lurked beneath the control.  _ Megatron should know who his enemies are _ . These two had more than simply salvaging the sundered smuggling routes and delivering aid packages to besieged Polyhex in mind.

“Losing Praxus hit us hard,” Jazz said in a casual voice that might have fooled any mech but the Prime, “but we ain’t done for. Polyhex won’t fall as long as Slink’s legacy exists.” Optimus’ confusion must have shown on the part of his face that hadn’t been replaced by a battle mask because Jazz chuckled lowly. “All this time doing business with us, getting your little relief packages into Polyhex and no one’s told you about Slink?”

“He was a smuggler,” Optimus said quietly. Respectful of the reverence with which Polyhexians held their hero, even if he didn’t share it. “And your ancestor.”

Jazz’s answering grin was a bright slash in the dark. “What  _ are _ they teaching the Primes these days? Meeting with smugglers in dark warehouses, and don’t even know the full story of Megatronus’ Siege.” Optimus was about to defend his education, sparse as it had been, but Jazz didn’t wait for his answer, turning instead to Prowl. “I ever tell you the story, Prowl?”

“Once,” Prowl answered calmly, “but only briefly.”

“Remind me ta pester m’sire for a copy of the formal version. You’ll like it, love. But until then,” Jazz leapt up onto one of the larger crates, which Optimus knew contained ammunition that should not be jostled but Jazz’s landing had been as light as a puff of smoke, “It was a dark and stormy night when Megatronus, the Betrayer-Prime, called upon Unicron for aid in destroying his Brothers and Creator and all the children they held dear.” Optimus did know this story. It was a staple of the small temple where he and the other dockworkers had spent the first joor of their days off in worship. But he didn’t interrupt.

“So Megatronus did his thing, completed the rituals, drank the blood of chaos and Unicron answered. He gave the Dark Prime great power, reached through him to raise the corpses of mechs under his control. Terrorcons and Sparkeaters were driven up from the depths, away from Primus’ spark, but neither could the foul things abide the light of the sun. So they lurked beneath Cybertron’s outermost layers and came up to prey on mechs at night.”

So far the legend was exactly as exactly as Optimus knew it and he nodded agreement when the mech paused his story. “Yes,” he said.

Jazz only smiled crookedly. “Come on Prime, you’re a smart mech. Tell me you see it.”

Optimus did not. Off to the side, where he still stood, Prowl huffed his vents in something like exasperation. “Polyhexians build  _ down _ .”

Suddenly he got it. He in-vented harshly. “Oh.” Because it wasn’t like hadn’t known that. It was why the Decepticons had laid siege to the city, instead of leveling it with air strikes as they had Praxus. The seekers had tried. Safe under the surface, Polyhex’s military had laughed and taken potshots at the frustrated airframes. Like Iacon under its dome, Polyhex could only be taken from the ground. Unlike Iacon, Polyhex was close enough to Decepticon held territory that a siege was an option.

It actually didn’t take him long to connect the points of the story after that: like the Decepticons now, the terrorcons then would have laid siege to the fledgeling city that would one day become Polyhex. With the city itself hidden from the light of the sun, they would not have been forced to retreat with the dawn. The undead may have been mindless, but in myth and tale they had been unending, sustained by Megatronus’ magic. And like Jazz and Moonshadow and all those who claimed descent from him, Slink must have been the one who’d made sure the supplies they needed to withstand the terrorcons had made it into the city. A folk hero, indeed. 

“I understand,” he said. “Polyhex will not fall.”

“Right you are,” Jazz said, still grinning. “Now get lost, so we can get these crates loaded.”

Optimus didn’t bother protesting that a light racing frame and a standard police interceptor couldn’t load these crates on their own — or that there were no ships or shuttles to load these crates into. As an outsider, Optimus could only interact with his contact, and with the docks destroyed and the dockworkers all gone, Jazz would have brought his own help.

“Primus bless, Jazz of Polyhex—”

“Praxus,” the mech corrected. “Was born in Polyhex. Have family, and Family, there still. Loyalty. But all’a’us who got dug out of the rubble, it don’t matter what our frames’re: We’re Praxus. One clan.”

_ Megatron should know who his enemies are _ , once again repeated in Prime’s processor and he shuddered. These two mechs weren’t Autobots ( _ yet _ , insisted the Matrix, though Optimus could not get it to elaborate). An invitation had already been extended to all the Praxan survivors, but only a few had taken him up on offer, the rest settling into Iacon as refugees. But neither were they neutral in this conflict. He knew nothing of their plans, of course, but he knew they had more than smuggling in mind.

How many of those refugees were actually following their leaders’ example?

Was this why you chose me? He asked Primus again, and as usual received no answer.

Outwardly he only nodded in response. “Of course. Primus bless, Jazz and Prowl, of Praxus.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After their failure that first night, Jazz has a few ideas about how to deal with Prowl’s glitch in the future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prowl is not a dom; Jazz is not a sub. (Or vice versa.) In stories that take place later in the timeline, being dominant fulfills a need for Prowl to be the one in control, because he has had so little control over his sex life in the past. In contrast, Jazz can get off on whatever makes his partner happy, as long as it doesn’t butt up against his own issues. But I got a request from 12drakon and realized I couldn’t write it without first explaining that things like safewords and aftercare are part of their standard interfacing lives, because BDSM isn’t the only reason to use such things. Well, I’ve already covered aftercare, elsewhere so here’s the other half.
> 
> Set the day after their failed attempt at interfacing in chapter two of _Crux_ , and long before their sex lives took their first turn for the kinky in the first chapter of _Mountains_.
> 
> Beta'ed by 12drakon and Darth Krande

“And this is a standard practice in Polyhex?” Prowl asked dubiously. Jazz had to admit he had a bit of a reason for his doubts. Mech practically flinched at the thought of any sort of kinkiness, and the practices they were currently discussing were kinky even by Jazz’s standards. But he knew about it, and they were talking about it, even if interfacing as a topic made Prowl heat-blush until his plating softened.

“Not standard,” Jazz said. “But it ain’t got a stigma either. Don’t worry. Whips and chains ain’t my idea of a good time either” -- not unless his partner insisted, in which case Jazz could be real flexible -- “but I think there’s a few things there we can use.”

“Like what?” Prowl’s doorwings were practically folded against his back in embarrassment. Jazz thought he was being brave; Praxans didn’t easily  _ talk _ about these things in his experience. So Jazz took it slow, and was careful not to corner him into the conversation. If Prowl said to leave it, he would.

For a while at least. This was important.

Prowl wasn’t telling him to leave it, though. He might yet die of acute embarrassment, but it looked like he was trying to take it seriously.

“Like safe words,” Jazz answered Prowl’s question. “Whips and chains and associated can be dangerous. Easy to go overboard — or to be too cautious — so there’s a system. Simplest is a word that means ‘stop everything now’.”

“Why not simply ‘stop’?”

How to explain this to someone who’d never once considered any sort of roleplaying while interfacing? “‘Cause sometimes that’s part of the play: pretend ta be reluctant, or coerced.” Prowl’s optics narrowed, and Jazz could practically  _ feel _ the resonance of a police officer on duty creep into his lover’s EM field. “That’s why the word, agreed on beforehand,” he said hurriedly. “Some mechs like to pretend. It ain’t  _ actually _ assault unless someone uses the safe word and it’s ignored. Anyway, that ain’t the system I was thinking of, ‘cause we ain’t doing that. I was thinking of using a check-in system, ‘cause it’ll help us both know where we’re at, keep us on the same page.”

“Because of my glitch,” Prowl said bitterly. 

“Yeah,” Jazz wasn’t going to lie about that. “You’re not broken, but it means we gotta take precautions. I don’t ever want to hurt you, Prowl, and last night I did.” He let some of the frustration and fear he’d felt then creep into his voice now. “I was trying ta be considerate, trying ta make sure I didn’t hurt you, and then I did. So, I want ta be able to check in, give us a means ta keep tabs on what you’re feeling and minimize the risk of that happening again.”

That brought Prowl’s doorwings back up a bit while he considered. “If we do this, that won’t happen again?”

The question, the hope in it, broke Jazz’s spark again. “I don’t think anything could completely prevent what happened last night,” he said honestly. Prowl’s doorwings drooped. “There’ll be times where it’s unavoidable, I think. But that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t do what we can, and if it works even some of the time, it’ll be worth the itty bitty extra effort, won’t it?”

Instead of perking up a bit, like Jazz had hoped they would, Prowl’s doorwings drooped further. “I don’t want to be a bother,” Prowl whispered.

Jazz had to look away before Prowl saw the anger in his visor.  He didn’t want Prowl to see… Instead Jazz looked down at his hands and channeled his anger into the effort it was taking to  _ not _ dent the table between him and Prowl.

“You’re  _ not _ a bother,” he said firmly when he felt he had control of his voice again. “ _ You’re _ not, and  _ this _ isn’t a bother either.” He looked back up, into Prowl’s optics. “I’d do a  _ lot _ more than just this if it means I was giving you what you need to enjoy our time together.”

Prowl looked away. “I apologize,” he said quietly. “I simply am not used to mechs being so… willing go through so much trouble on account of my glitch.”

“I’d walk through the heart of a sun if you needed me to,” Jazz informed him.

Prowl didn’t believe him, Jazz could tell, but he didn’t argue either.

Instead he flipped through the informational datapad Jazz had brought again. His chevron glowed in infrared as he blushed anew, but he read through the whole thing. “I see,” he said. “At least, I see how this works in conjunction with the practices described here. I can see how it might work in relation with my own glitch, but please describe how  _ you _ see this working.”

Awww… just look at those way-too competent thought-threads again. Jazz knew he was completely and utterly besotted. He knew Prowl was afraid of him leaving, of him getting tired of accommodating Prowl’s oversensitivity, but Jazz knew himself better than that. Prowl was going to have to pry him off with a crowbar if Prowl was the one who couldn’t deal with... things.

Since glomping on and cuddling was a no-no, Jazz instead reached over and gently placed his fingers on Prowl’s where they grasped at the bookfile. Prowl looked down at where their plating touched and Jazz waited for his reaction. Mech was starved for affection, and Jazz delighted in finding ways to express it that didn’t involve touch, but sometimes…

Prowl’s doorwings relaxed. Acceptance. For now at least. Jazz would take it.

“Just a quick way to check in, and for you to tell me what’s going on, without having to stop and find a lot of words to describe it, since you seem ta lose a lot of your eloquence in passion. It’s cute,” he insisted, when Prowl looked like he was about to apologize for it. “Ain’t a bad thing at all. But it means I don’t know whether ‘now’ means ‘now, because you’re driving me crazy’ or ‘now, or else it’s going to hurt if you don’t’. S’what happened last night.”

“I can try,” Prowl started, but then stopped. He knew that no matter how much he tried to be more specific, interfacing robbed him of the words he needed. He looked away. “You are right. Others have asked me to be specific, and it has not worked in the past.”

Jazz swallowed his anger. Those others were in the past now, and Prowl didn’t need his anger. “But that’s why I thought of this. Say we go with the standard colors: next time when you say ‘now’, I ask for a color, and if it’s just arousal then you say ‘green’. Tells me I got a bit more time to make you feel good, right? Or if it’s because your glitch is about to trigger, you say ‘yellow’ and I know that too. Or if you need me to stop, even if I haven’t asked, you say ‘red’ and I back off, hopefully before you’re actually in pain. You don’t have to find the words, they’re already there, and if you’re so out of it you can’t say even that much, then I stop what I’m doing until you can give me a color. Gives you incentive to remember them, don’t it?”

He was happy to see one of his lover’s doorwings twitch in slight amusement. “Yes it does.” Prowl reread the relevant sections of the bookfile, then set it down, lightly grasping Jazz’s fingers in the process, which made Jazz’s spark do little end-over-end flips joy. “Your reasoning does align with the conclusions I’d come to. However I do not believe we should use the standard colors. While I cannot imagine, right now, us requiring this system for its original purpose, I cannot discount that we may… experiment, at one time or another. It would be good to reserve the original colors for that purpose.”

There was a distasteful twist in Prowl’s EM field — one he was trying to hide and not entirely succeeding — at the word ‘experiment’ and Jazz had to suppress the urge to ask his twin to track down some of Prowl’s former partners. He had no doubt that Prowl had agreed to things that made him uncomfortable in the past, because he had believed his relationships contingent on it. “Whatever you think is best,” he said and was rewarded with a surprised and pleased flush across his doorwings in infrared. “Ain’t ever going to do anything you object to — for  _ any _ reason — but I can’t argue with planning for the future.”

Prowl looked surprised. “I thought... “ He stopped, then started again, “Polyhexians have higher sex drives than Praxans, and you had this bookfile. I just don’t want to disappoint you.”

“Impossible,” Jazz asserted. Prowl could never disappoint him. “I had that bookfile,  _ in storage _ , because one’a m’partners in Polyhex was a hardcore sub. I did m’research, but it ain’t a scene I subscribe to. And sex… It’s fun, and you’re right. Polys do it and talk about it a lot more than Praxans do, but that don’t mean I’m going ta pressure you into anything. It’s only fun if  _ everyone _ has fun, dig?”

The Praxan didn’t answer right away. Jazz was starting to worry, but then Prowl noded slowly. “I believe I understand. Thank you.”

“I mean it Prowl,” Jazz pressed, just because he  _ never _ wanted to feel that uncomfortable twist in Prowl’s EM field directed at him.  _ Ever _ . “I  _ ever _ suggest something that makes you uncomfortable, you  _ tell me no.  _ **_Promise_ ** .”

To Jazz’s disappointment, Prowl looked down and away from Jazz’s visor. “You won’t leave?”

“ **_No_ ** .”

Prowl’s doorwings relaxed. He looked back to Jazz’s optic band. “Then I promise.” Pleased at getting that promise from him, Jazz lifted his lover’s hand to give his fingertips a brief kiss, then, when he heard Prowl’s engine rumble in encouragement, started pressing little kisses to each of the fingertips individually. “Helium, neon, and argon,” Prowl said abruptly.

It took a moment for Jazz to refocus on something other than the sexy little sounds and shifts in his lover’s frame to realize what a list of the three lightest noble gases had to do with anything. “Just to be clear: ‘Helium’ for ‘I’m alright, keep going’, ‘neon’ for ‘it’s about to be too much’, and ‘argon’ for ‘stop everything now’.”

“Yes,” said Prowl. “Did you want to attempt this tonight?”

Prowl looked so hopeful and eager and far too touch starved for good health. Glitch didn’t mean the mech didn’t have desires. Didn’t mean Jazz was at all averse to fulfilling those desires. He grinned. “Sure. But before we do, I wanted ta talk a bit about aftercare…”


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey _Lord_ Megatron! Long live Praxus, fragger!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place sometime after ch 5 of _Crux_
> 
> Beta'ed by Darth Krande and 12drakon.

The paint itched.

It was a strange thought to have while crouched in the slurry of metallic dust and slightly acidic oil that pooled in the cavern beneath the Decepticon base. Cybertron was riddled with tunnels. Tunnel under tunnel, layer upon layer -- all the way down to the spark of Primus himself, or so it was said. Jazz didn’t know anyone who had gone that far, but Polyhexians… They tried. The city needed access to the sun, and the solar power it provided, the mechs needed access to as much fresh air as could be pumped down into the city’s lowest reaches. Within the framework of those limitations, Polyhexians _tried_ to build down to the Core, to touch the spark of the planet. To feel their Creator’s thoughts, not through faith, but through the EM field that _must_ exist if such a spark did. The Origin of all sparks…

Outside priests and prayers, Jazz couldn’t say he’d ever felt their god’s regard. But that was faith. What you searched for might not exist, but belief made it real.

Even now, when it seemed like Primus had abandoned them.

Maybe that faith served them yet, for no one knew the darkness of Cybertron’s deep places quite like a Polyhexian, and no one knew the tunnels quite like a Family smuggler.

Not all the tunnels were secure, but those that were, the smuggling routes, were sacred. They were secure enough to drive supply convoys and caravans to every corner of Cybertron. Secure enough to access every city and bring supplies into the besieged Polyhex despite sieges by terrorcons and less-mythical Decepticons. Sacred, not to be shared… No one outside Slink’s Clan knew them well enough to use them. Never share, and never risk the tunnels. It was their clan’s cardinal rule.

Right now Jazz was skirting the very edge of legality and blasphemy.

He had claimed Praxus as his clan, his Family -- a new branch, a new clan, with himself as Sire. Branches split off all the time. That’s why there were multiple Families, and not a single one under a single Sire. But Jazz’s was unusual. With Prowl’s claim on all of Praxus as clan, and Jazz’s claim on Prowl as conjunx… Well, it wouldn’t have worked, if Jazz and Titanium (Primus accept and love his spark) hadn’t worked to make Prowl’s claim on the city accepted and acceptable for _vorns_ before this. If the Decepticons had left more than a few hundred survivors. If they had never attacked at all.

Of course, if they hadn’t, Jazz wouldn’t be here, crouched in the tunnel-slurry with paint that itched.

The routes were secret, unknown, sacred… Which was why the Decepticons had built this base, the logistics hub for the entire region, right on top of this cavern and its secret entrance. It was a prime location for such a hub: none better aboveground or below.

_“I have optics on the patrol. One more breem before it passes the entrance, and then we’ll have a joor before the next.”_ Prowl’s voice over comms. He was outside, in the rain, with those who had enough training with long-range firearms to act as snipers in a pinch, to keep an optic on movements within the base, and to lay down distraction fire if needed. Jazz sent an acknowledging _click!_ to indicate that he had gotten the message, then gestured to the rest of his team.

The mechs who had always been criminals, those who had once been shopkeepers, janitors, craftsmechs, and assorted Family members acknowledged, most with a brief dimming of their visors, but some with an equally brief dip of doorwings. Even through the tarps they all wore, Jazz could see the heat-flush of fear crawling under their plating. The flush was barely muffled by the tarps that had become their uniform, but their optical sensors -- visors and optics both -- were angry, determined. They were here because they wanted to strike back, and fear was not going to stop them.

Of everything about this raid, the wholescale adoption of the survivors of Praxus broke the fewest Family rules. And Jazz liked to think that Slink would have approved; hadn’t _he_ had his own raiding parties as well, hunting sparkeaters to keep Polyhex safe and slay its enemies? The Praxus clan was only the modern incarnation of that half of the tale, as the Decepticons themselves had become the modern analogue for the terrorcons. Besides, if all went well, the integrity of the tunnel would be preserved -- there would be no Decepticons alive to identify how the raiders had gotten past the perimeter defenses -- but if things went _badly_ \--

If things went badly, Jazz reminded himself, none of them would be alive to care about a bit of blasphemy.

The rain worked in their favor. Nothing up top moved without the heavy shielding that the Decepticons had to make do with. Shielding the majority of the soldiers didn’t have. But Polys… Between the tunnels and the lake through which most of the city’s legal shipping funneled, Polyhexians knew how to deal with acid. At least for short stints. Which is why the paint _itched._ And the acid-resistant tarp he wrapped around himself clogged his vents and he had to consciously throttle down his systems or overheat… This was one part of being a Family smuggler Jazz had never missed during his stint as an honest citizen in Praxus.

Five more kliks. Jazz was just waiting for Prowl’s signal now. “Remember,” he addressed the team quietly. “Your priority is weapons, then energon and medical supplies. But really, _anything_ that ain’t nailed down’s fair game. Just don’t get caught, and don’t get caught in th’fireworks at the end. We’ll sort it later.”

Another mixed collection of acknowledgements. And just in time.

_“Now, lover,”_ Prowl’s command echoed in his processor and Jazz flipped open the hidden tunnel entrance to let in the rain. It hissed and sizzled when it hit his plating but didn’t penetrate the paint and tarp. It was a short dash to the first of five ‘logistics support’ buildings, all lined up in a neat row. “Logistics support’ was just another name for a warehouse with the most boring military architecture ever: half-cylinder prefab building.

Jazz was good with locks, but not that good (yet!), so he instead kept watch over little Snowflake, a Praxan femme who’d been a thief longer than Jazz had been alive. They were joined only a second later by Spear, one of Titanium’s old guards. Like the guard he was, he might not have been happy with leaving Jazz to fend for himself here, but he did his job. He was to keep Snowflake safe. It was _vital_ that she survived this mission. She’d already agreed to teach anyone who showed an interest or aptitude, but until then, her skills and experience were irreplaceable. She made short work of the lock, then she and Spear moved onto the next.

_“Prowl? Any optics awake?”_

_“No. Everyone’s still asleep.”_

Not literally, since the Decepticon warframes were frustrated with the area’s near-constant rains. The base had been built and staffed during the dry season. Now that the weather had shifted they were stuck in their barracks, save for the miserable patrol schedule or the occasional supply caravan around the region - and very unhappy about it. Fights broke out daily, according to the Praxans’ recon of the base, but the Decepticons were complacent; no Autobot attacks would be launched in this weather.

So there were probably Decepticons awake in their windowless barracks, but Prowl’s code phrase meant the base’s security system was still under their control. Rapidsong’s work. One of Jazz’s cousins, on loan from his sire. The hacker had a profound disrespect for authority that frustrated Jazz’s sire to no end. He’d actually been relieved when Jazz said he could use Rapidsong _and_ his antics.

Jazz didn’t stop to watch Snowflake open the other base warehouses. He moved into the first and surveyed what it contained.

Jackpot. Weapons.

Jazz started loading up everything that could fit in his subspace. Behind him five more mechs filed in and started doing the same. Thirty mechs could fit a lot in their subspace pockets. Six per building. Once their pockets were stuffed full, the team split. Half of them formed lines, shuttling the contents of the warehouses down into the tunnel; the other half rigged the base to blow up using the Decepticons’ own weapons and explosives -- spectacularly, Jazz hoped.

One joor went by. Jazz ticked the countdown in his processor while his mechs quietly reported the status of the warehouses as half-emptied, and right on cue Prowl sent, _“Time.”_

Jazz didn’t respond this time; Prowl could see him from his place on the ridge. He just gestured to the nearest mechs. They nodded and set off. This was planned, and it went as smoothly as the rest of the operation had, but Jazz waited at the entrance to the tunnel, and didn’t relax until he’d counted all his mechs and closed the entrance behind him.

It really was a Cybertron-shattering _Ka-BOOM._ Jazz wished he’d been able to sign his name to it.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Different kinds of scenes often require different kinds of aftercare.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place a few hours after the end-scene of _Murder and Scandal in Little Polyhex_. Not included in that story b/c of a POV change and a very different theme/tone.
> 
> Beta’ed by 12drakon

They’d done it. And it had been fun. Decaorns of buildup as Prowl worked that puzzle had been  _ so _ worth it. Jazz had pulled every trick he knew to bend a lover to his will and enforce the message that he was dominant, he was in control. Familiarity with the way Prowl’s oversensitivity worked had only made it more effective. Prowl had said “yellow” when Jazz had asked for a color regarding the collar, but Jazz hadn’t intended to go further than that. True, he had a thing for handcuffs (and Prowl had purchased some really nice new ones they would definitely be using in the future), but Jazz couldn’t be the one wearing them for this game, and Prowl had bad experiences being restrained by his previous lovers. Prowl was willing but Jazz didn’t need them to dominate his lover and so didn’t need to risk brushing up against those bad experiences. At the same time, Jazz praised his new payroll for how smart he was, how much Jazz appreciated what he’d done already, and how much Jazz would appreciate what he’d do in the future.

And Prowl had… responded. He’d been eager to please and to be pleased. Jazz had watched Prowl — his strong, unyielding, uncompromising Prowl and his beautiful integrity — slowly be replaced by someone Jazz could manipulate. If this had been real, Jazz would have praised himself for his new acquisition.

Instead, Jazz was bundled up in far too many hotel blankets trying not to overheat and with a clingy Praxan on top of him.

Because that was the rub. It had been a fun fantasy, for both of them, but Jazz didn’t want to accidentally make it real. Normally, Jazz’s first priority, as soon as he could think straight again after overload, was getting Prowl in the bath where he could recover. Jazz had sung to Prowl until a bit of awareness had entered those pretty optics, intending to do his duty as a good, caring dom and see to his sub. Cuddling and assurances were the usual with most lovers, but Prowl couldn’t be cuddled. He’d offered his assurances and sung instead. Musical cuddles, Jazz had once called it in jest, and Prowl had agreed with the term. But instead of letting himself be led to the bath for his own aftercare, Prowl had started checking Jazz over, like he always did when Jazz subbed. 

Jazz hadn’t argued. It was important to see to Prowl’s needs, but one of those needs was to be in control of himself again. Jazz needed  _ to put _ Prowl back in control again, and if this was how Prowl needed to do it, by having Jazz yield to care as Jazz-the-Sire wouldn’t have tolerated, Jazz wasn’t going to tell him no. So Jazz yielded to what his partner was silently doing.

The silence was strange, but Prowl still had that dazed look in this optics. When Jazz tried asking what he needed, Prowl just shook his head in frustration, so Jazz filled the silence with soft songs that made Prowl tilt his head and relax his doorwings. He just let Prowl do what he wanted, even as Jazz shuddered to think of how Prowl must be hurting himself to check over every inch of Jazz for injuries and scuffs.

As it turned out, shuddering had been… an idea. Jazz still wasn’t sure if it had been a good one or bad one. Still dazed, Prowl had taken it to mean that Jazz was cold and had promptly bundled him in every blanket and most of the pillows the hotel room had to offer. On the one hand, Jazz knew this buffered Prowl from the plating-contact that caused him pain; on the other, since being the dominant partner didn’t lead to a temperature crash like subbing did, Jazz immediately started to overheat.

But then Prowl had draped himself over the Jazz-blanket bundle, pinning Jazz to the bed and snuggling as much as both their frametypes allowed. Jazz had become  _ even more _ reluctant to do anything besides enjoy it. The blanket pretty thoroughly limited Jazz’s movement options and Prowl’s slightly larger and definitely heavier frame was smooshing him into the deeply padded berth; even if he’d wanted to it was unlikely he’d escape. Jazz was a post-coital cuddler. Always had been. But cuddling Prowl was always chancy and short lived and the Praxan never initiated it. This was strange and wonderful and Jazz really didn’t want to move. At all.

But he was really starting to overheat. Slowly he inched one of his hands out of the blankets, to open a vent… and Prowl caught the hand.

Jazz waited to see what his lover was going to do with it. Even this much plating contact was usually too much for Prowl after sex, though he endured it while taking care of Jazz. Given his mental state and other actions, he thought Prowl might gently tuck it back under the blankets and close up the hole Jazz had been trying to make. Instead Prowl held it and started gently manipulating his fingers, like they had suddenly become unfamiliar to him and he was trying to figure out how the mechanisms worked. Jazz wiggled through one incremental adjustment at a time until he’d rolled over to look up at his lover. He went slow. The blanket, the padding and Prowl’s weight did not allow for much movement at a time and he was careful not to upset Prowl’s balance or pull his hand out of his lover’s grip. Prowl’s expression still wasn’t entirely in the here-and-now, but he was focused with laser intensity on Jazz’s hand, a tiny frown of concentration pulling at the corners of his mouth.

“Prowl?” he asked softly. “Talk ta me lover. What’s going on in your head?”

“Jazz,” the glyphs meant  _ Jazz, Family Sire.  _ That had never actually been Jazz’s name, but they had used it during the fantasy, instead of  _ Jazz, Music Performer, _ which was what his full name here in Praxus actually was. “Jazz has claws.”

“Yes, he does,” Jazz answered carefully, trying to figure out what Prowl was really asking. Was Prowl still confused and trapped in the fantasy? (Dear Primus, he hoped not.) Jazz didn’t think so. That Prowl wouldn’t have dared try and pin Jazz as Jazz was now pinned, even if  _ Jazz, Family Sire _ had allowed it. Which he wouldn’t have. It was one of his reasons for submitting to this, other than the cuddles.

“Jazz,” and this time it was  _ Jazz, Music Performer, _ “does not?” Prowl still sounded confused.

“Ain’t sure what you’re asking me, love.”

“You had them and Ricochet has them and Titanium has them, and now you don’t,” Prowl said carefully. “But you had them just now, and yet I don’t see them. Did I imagine them?”

Ah. Okay. Confused about the fantasy, but not trapped in it. Jazz could work with this. “Naw. Didn’t imagine it.” He triggered the micro-transformation that extended his claws from his fingertips. “Just don’t walk around showing them off. Sends the wrong message, and Praxans ain’t exactly comfortable with them either. It’s a warframe trait around here, and I definitely ain’t that.”

Prowl took a long moment to silently reexamine his hand and the new shape it had taken on. He ran his fingers over the sharp points, manipulated the fingers, and watched how the claws flexed in response, lengthening and shortening slightly based on the position of the fingers and wrist. The frown smoothed out. Curiosity slowly replaced the blank dazed expression. “Ricochet and Titanium?”

“Rico’s don’t retract, and Titanium is making a point by keeping his out all the time,” Jazz explained. “Claws’re a Family trait and showing them in public’s a threat. Rico’s don’t retract because of what his job is,” which was the closest Jazz would come to admitting to Prowl that Ricochet’s job consisted primarily of threatening people and beating them up on Titanium’s command, not that Jazz actually knew any of the specifics that would get his twin in trouble. “Titanium shows them because threats are as much a part of doing business as anything else. He’s announcing he’s a dangerous mech. I keep mine retracted because I ain’t got a reason ta threaten people anymore. I ain’t dangerous.”

“Was Prowl,” and this time Prowl said his own name as  _ Prowl, Corrupt Police Officer _ , “disobedient? Did he need to be threatened?”

“Threats’re part’a th’game,” Jazz said, “and… sex an’ claws’re complicated anyway. S’also a sign’a affection. Prowl,” and Jazz said it the way Prowl had,  _ Prowl, Corrupt Police Officer, _ “was perfect.” Prowl shuddered slightly, responding to the praise. “But if it’s alright, I’d kinda like my Prowl,” and Jazz used his lover’s true, full name,  _ Prowl, Proud to Protect and Serve _ , “back soonish. He needs ta take a bath, or things’re gonna start hurtin’, even with th’blankets, and I don’t ever want to hurt you, lover.”

“I…” Prowl clutched at Jazz’s hand and Jazz quickly retracted the claws before his lover accidentally skewered himself. Those were weapons, not decoration, and as such were  _ very  _ sharp. Prowl swayed a bit, and Jazz worried that he’d maybe pushed a little too fast, but the Praxan caught himself. He almost visibly compartmentalized, putting the whole experience and the character of  _ Prowl, Corrupt Police Officer _ away. It was one of the reasons Jazz had rented a hotel instead of redecorating one of their apartments into a manor, to make that compartmentalization easier for both of them. “I… yes. Yes I do,” he finally answered. It made Jazz’s spark soar, because it was strong and sure and very much  _ Prowl. _ “Stay with me?”

“Always,” Jazz promised.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thirteen sentences about Jazz’s twin, Ricochet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The writing group did the sentence-challenge again. I had more trouble with it this time, but I did get some dealing with Ricochet in this ‘verse. 
> 
> Beta’d by 12drakon

Ricochet…

    1. is a Family enforcer. Threats and intimidation are, literally, what Titanium pays him for.
    2. is Jazz’s twin. They never had a particularly strong sparkbond, but while they were partners, they worked at it and remained close. In recent vorns, however, different life choices have had them drifting apart, and their bond has weakened further.
    3. isn’t the self-pitying type, but does want a return to that closeness.
    4. is more careful than he was when he was younger. He’s already served two prison sentences in Polyhex for assault, and Praxus isn’t as lenient.
    5. isn’t naturally careful. He’s used to his brother telling him how to be careful, and learning to be careful on his own has been difficult.
    6. moved to Praxus when Jazz did, but whereas Jazz is only involved in Titanium’s organization because of the sparkline relation, Ricochet continues to be an enforcer.
    7. was the one to rip off Tangerine’s armor and carve out layers of circuits and wires… he carved the traitor’s body away while he screamed and screamed until his spark gave out. Then he cleaned the wreck’s energon off his claws and went to go visit his brother in the hospital. Jazz didn’t ask — Jazz _never_ asked — what had happened to Tangerine; he knew, and he knew Ricochet had been the one to do it.
    8. hoped Jazz would, once the pain of Tangerine’s betrayal faded a bit, return to the Family and they’d resume being partners in crime. Jazz so far hasn’t, and has instead taken up with a police officer as his chosen mate. Guess what the Family says is true: “Betrayal is always present tense, because betrayal never fades.”
    9. doesn’t like Prowl at all.
    10. knows that returning to the Family (and him!) is a decision Jazz has to make for himself… but it’d be easier for Jazz to do if he didn’t have a Dog sniffing around constantly!
    11. sometimes goes into recharge planning and plotting out ways to get rid of Prowl and entice his brother to return, but in the end never does it, because even he can see that Jazz is stupid in love with the mech, and doesn’t want to hurt his twin.
    12. will be the one to carve away the officer, layer by layer, until he’s carved away every layer of protection around his spark and then crush it in his claws if Prowl doesn’t prove worthy of Jazz. Titanium thinks it’ll be him, as Sire, who will dictate punishment… but he’s wrong; it will be Ricochet.
    13. __isn’t lonely Primus-damnit!__



 

 


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Their whole world, nothing in existence except each other...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feels weird not to have something to post as a regular thing on Fridays, so have a new chapter in a thing not on a regular schedule. Timeline - this takes place after _Murder and Scandal in Little Polyhex_.
> 
> I have a non-sexual BDSM kink, so this is porn for me. :P
> 
> Beta’d by 12drakon

And people thought  _ Jazz _ would be the kinky one.

Jazz looked up from the veritable pile of research materials — he recognized some of the file-stamps as coming from Polyhex’s digital library, and wondered how Prowl had finagled access to  _ that _ — to Prowl’s embarrassed and hopeful expression. “You don’t like restraints. What brought this on?”

Jazz rather suspected it was the hotel room. Specifically what Prowl had done after, wrapping Jazz up in blankets to cuddle.

A soft heat blush glowed softly to Jazz’s infrared sight along the mech’s cheeks, chevron, neck cables and even the tips of his doorwings. “I don’t honestly know. It was very irresponsible for me to continue using my work-cuffs when something better was available, so I did research. I used the bookfile you showed me to explain safewords as a starting point to look for keywords, and ran across words and definitions I was not aware of. Why I followed this particular thread of research or why it is attractive to me…” Prowl’s doorwings drooped, “I don’t know.”

“Hey,” Jazz said softly, reassuringly. He put the printed flimsy explaining the basics of Shibari down on the pile of flimsies going through the basics of similar and related activities and grabbed a blanket to wrap Prowl in before briefly embracing him. Watching Prowl relax as the blanket settled, Jazz thought he could see where Prowl’s sudden fascination was coming from. “It’s alright. This ain’t even a little weird. Just blindsided me, is all, since you don’t like even the thought of being tied up.”

Prowl seemed to shrink a bit in his armor. “Mesothulas was fascinated with my police cuffs too.”

Jazz’s processor put two and two together and came up with  _ ‘I am going to kill that fragger!’  _ — which was  _ not _ the right thought at all. Old habits and all, but Prowl wouldn’t appreciate the offer. Prowl had said he’d had a bad experience in the past, which was anger-making enough, but this was the first time he’d actually given any sort of details. That that filthy, dirty, slag-pile would use Prowl’s  _ own cuffs _ to make him afraid —! 

“Officers don’t belong in cuffs,” he said instead of unsheathing his claws in an utterly useless  _ threat display. _ “Criminals,” he gave a salacious flicker of his EM field, “do.” Prowl chuckled, some of the tension draining out of him. “So tell me, just the very first word that popped in yer gorgeous processor when y’look at one’a these pictures.”

“Safe,” Prowl whispered.

Well… there went any reservations Jazz might have had about this. Not that he’d harbored many at all, and none of them about his own comfort with Prowl’s newly revealed kink. Jazz had met very few kinks he couldn’t get behind if his lover enjoyed them. He was more concerned with Prowl. “Okay, tell me what you want and we’ll figure out how to make it happen.”

Turned out that what Prowl actually wanted was pretty mild. So mild, in fact, that it barely counted as immobilization at all, which was a relief to Jazz. He’d never done serious mummification or shibari before and wouldn't have felt comfortable doing anything extreme without pinging any of his family for someone who’d had to supervise. It might be standard practice in Polyhex when trying out an extreme kink for the first time, but he could just imagine how it’d freak Prowl out to have Titanium or one of Jazz’s cousins watching.

They were in Prowl’s apartment, on Jazz’s bed because that was the one out in the living space.

It was strange, he thought, thinking about how kinks could develop and evolve in a person. He knew his own fascination with being cuffed came from having to avoid it at all costs in the past. Not just in avoiding being arrested, but no active Family member let a mech slap a pair of cuffs on him willingly. Other forms of bondage were fine, with a lover he felt safe with — and he’d been tied up a few times by a few lovers — but police cuffs were an  _ absolute _ taboo. Which of course just made them all the more attractive. 

Prowl’s new kink… Jazz, it turned out, was the first person to regularly try and use blankets to provide a bit of a buffer between his own plating and Prowl’s oversensitivity. It had simply been unacceptable to watch his lover struggle to the bath, or through other things he  _ should _ be helping with. The first blanket had been a bit of a desperate ploy to keep Prowl from falling over. It had worked, though not always as well as Jazz might have wished it did. That feeling of safety in being wrapped up had left an impression that Prowl now wanted to invoke. And intensify. It must have been the memory of wrapping Jazz up in the hotel to cuddle that had linked that feeling to the images Prowl had found during his research. But it had been Jazz’s long-time practice of using blankets, towels, or whatever other bit of cloth that was handy that had laid the foundation for it.

Nervousness and stress made the oversensitivity and the likelihood of pain worse, so Prowl was chilling in a boiling-hot shower while Jazz set up. 

Carefully, he laid out the blankets he’d pulled from Prowl’s bed, his own, and the two beds from his apartment. If this worked the way Prowl hoped it would, they’d buy some specialized equipment. Jazz’d have to do some research of his own to figure out exactly what.

With his usual excellent timing, Prowl came out of the washracks, gleaming and dry and wrapped tightly in a towel, right as Jazz finished laying out the pile of blankets. Jazz smiled in welcome and held out his hand. 

“Hey, beautiful.” The hot cleanser played merry hell with Jazz’s infrared, looking like an intense, persistent heat-blush all over in the Praxan-bright lights. He was hesitant to imagine what it’d look like in Polyhexian darkness. Disturbing, probably, and dangerously overheated, though he knew Prowl’s systems handled that better than his own. Prowl  _ liked _ the boiling cleanser he bathed in for his aftercare. Jazz only liked that when he had issues with regulating his own temperature. “Gimme a couple’a words, please.”

Prowl reached out and took Jazz’s hand, holding the towel around his shoulders with the other. “Green. Helium.”

Feeling good about what they were doing and not in any pain. Good.

He guided Prowl to lay down on top of the pile of blankets and get comfortable. Jazz made sure there was a pillow under his head, and tucked in other parts of his frame that would need support for a long period of not moving. Prowl’s doorwings folded down completely against his back, which Jazz had never seen the mech do before. It was a  _ very _ submissive gesture in Praxus. During the payroll roleplay, Prowl had lowered them, but  _ not _ folded them entirely against his back. Jazz touched the nearest one. 

“You don’t need ta lay these all the way down. Make it easier to wrap ya up tight, yeah, but I can’t ask it of ya.”

Prowl looked up at Jazz and blinked slowly. Jazz had never seen such a naive and open trust in Prowl’s expression. Jazz felt proud he was helping Prowl relax, thrilled at the mech’s reaction; he also felt  _ heavy _ with the trust that was being placed in him. That was a  _ gift _ and the thought of failing to live up to it was absolutely devastating. 

“They’re fine,” Prowl said slowly. Altered mental state or not, it was clear he knew what he was doing showing such absolute submission. Knew it and knew Jazz knew it. 

Jazz shivered and reminded himself to be careful with Prowl’s trust. He always was, but another reminder never hurt. Seemed the mech was slipping a bit into sub space; and it wasn’t really Jazz’s place to debate where his doorwings were. Instead he took the pillows he’d saved to support them in their slightly extended positions and laid them over the doorwings, padding them, muffling the sensors, and holding them in place. Prowl shivered. “Color,” Jazz demanded.

“Green,” Prowl’s voice was a bit indistinct and far away. Definitely in a sub space.

Overheating was a possibility; Jazz wanted a way to monitor the temperature inside the bundle. He tucked the prong (filed down so it wasn’t the least bit sharp) of a new thermometer meant for baking energon-treats, and tucked it into the tight space between Prowl’s chest armor and the pillow supporting his bumper, then pulled out the display to where it wouldn’t be wrapped up with Prowl. He planned on watching it the whole time, but just in case, it was also set to go off with a shrill alarm if it hit 215°, a couple of degrees hotter than Prowl’s scalding baths.

Blindfold was next. This Jazz had bought new, specifically for this. A soft blend of imported organic fiber and thin metallic threads, it was designed to block every frequency of light every frametype had been known to be able to see in. It had been a bit pricey. Prowl had fretted over the cost, tried to say he would be fine with only a simple metal-mesh strip of cloth, but Jazz had insisted. He was a professional landlord, and if his buildings weren’t  _ as _ profitable as they could possibly be because he didn’t cut corners, they still brought in a good income; he had the money. He usually used it to buy new instruments, but this was a good use for it too. 

Prowl had wanted a set of audio-blockers as well, but Jazz had balked at that. They needed to be able to exchange safewords, and though Prowl had pointed out that they could use comm systems, he had relented. Jazz’s real issue was in trying to do too much at once. If this worked, they could take it a step further next time.

Prowl  _ had _ insisted that Jazz cover up his chevron though. The points were sharp enough to potentially rip the blankets, and if the sensors embedded in it were left uncovered then they might as well have not bothered with the blindfold. Finding a “blindfold” for a Praxan’s chevron had been an adventure and a half. Praxans didn’t usually do that sort of thing. They had started their search at the same shop Prowl had bought his new play-cuffs at, which had led them to three more shops, each more well-hidden than the last, before they’d found what they were looking for.

“Color?”

“Green,” this time Prowl’s voice was even more distant. Fuzzy. Floaty. 

“Okay. Gonna start wrapping ya up now.” Prowl just hummed contentedly in response, and Jazz took that as a yes.

There was a physical  _ effort _ in folding the blankets over his lover, there were that many of them, but the feeling of Prowl’s struts relaxing under his hands made it more than worth it. And this was just the first fold. Jazz still had to do the other side. Carefully he made sure the blankets were laying flat, with no folds or wrinkles that might irritate Prowl’s plating, then tucked the blankets tightly under Prowl, restricting movement as much as he could. Then he repeated the process with the other side of the blankets.

The result was something that didn’t look like it had a person in it at all, just a pile of blankets rolled up on Jazz’s bed. 

“Wiggle for me, lover.” It took a moment for Prowl to respond — he was probably feeling so calm and floaty the words weren’t registering very well — but he did so, demonstrating just how much movement he was capable of. Not much at all. He was fully restrained, but the movement he was capable of was enough that Jazz didn’t worry about his ability to vent or the other autonomous functions in his frame. “Two words.”

“Green,” fuzzy, floaty and now muffled by every blanket the two of them owned, Jazz could still hear him fine, “Helium.”

“Good.” Jazz left just long enough to turn off the lights, then settled down next to Prowl, adding part of his own weight to what kept Prowl from moving around. He expanded his EM field as much as he could, full of  _ reassurance _ and  _ love, _ and turned on the vid.

The vid was Jazz’s addition to the scene. The point of this scene was to relax, not to rev. As Prowl’s systems calmed to a state of relaxation he didn’t achieve even during recharge, and his EM field filled with calm, fuzzy,  _ safe _ feelings, Jazz was in serious danger of falling into recharge himself, if this went on as long as they’d planned. Since he was in charge of safety, recharge was a  _ bad _ idea. So, the vid. 

It was just a documentary on the subterranean acid-dwelling fauna of Polyhex, nothing too distracting, but enough to keep Jazz awake. It also provided a convenient timer so they wouldn’t accidently let this go on too long, no more than the vid’s length, a joor. The narrator was one well-known for his quiet, soothing voice. The images of segmented metallic glow-worms, and the starry-sky of lights they created to lure in their acid-metabolizing prey, and cybertriops swimming through the acid… Jazz had had gardens that featured domestic versions of many of these critters, so his feelings watching them were nostalgic and calm: feelings that would only help Prowl continue to relax if Jazz accidently leaked them into his EM field. 

The sound was routed to Jazz’s commsuite, so Prowl couldn’t hear anything. Jazz’s compromise for saying no to the audio-blocks was that he was going to be as quiet as possible.

This was nice. Hotel cuddles or not, Jazz hadn’t thought this was going to be one of  _ his _ kinks. Well, consider him converted! Cuddling with Prowl was the  _ best. _ Jazz could feel the weight and angles of Prowl’s frame, familiar and wonderful, softened by the layers of padding. He pressed himself against Prowl without fear of causing his lover pain. He ran his hands over Prowl’s frame without the mech flinching away, in frame or field. Every so often Prowl wiggled a bit, testing his range of movement — as tight as when they started — and relaxed further.  _ Safe. _

Was Prowl purring?

He was!

Delighted, Jazz pressed his audio against the blanket-bundle over Prowl’s engine to listen to the soft  _ purr purr purr purr _ rumbles he was making. 

He let the transmission from the vid fade to a quiet background murmur in his comsuite while he concentrated on the soft and muffled sounds Prowl was making inside his confinement.  _ Purr, purr, purr _ went Prowl’s engine, and Jazz’s answered with a similar rumble as he let his senses  _ fill _ with the sounds of Prowl. His world narrowed down to Prowl. Prowl in the blankets, wrapped up and safe, held by Jazz. Prowl wrapping his EM field around Jazz’s, their fields synced into a constant loop of  _ contentment - safe - contentment - delight. _

It was almost  _ jarring _ when the vid ended and he realized he had to end the scene.

He shivered, suddenly cold. It felt a bit like sub-drop. Top-drop. Which was… Well, Jazz wasn’t going to go so far as to say it was ridiculous, but it had never happened to him before. But he felt cold and bereft as he unwrapped Prowl and removed the blindfold. 

It was still too dark for Prowl to see anything — deliberate, since after that sensory deprivation there was a chance Prowl’s sensors would overclock when released — but he blinked up at Jazz anyway, meeting his dimmed visor. “Color,” Prowl asked, voice still fuzzy with sub space and sublime relaxation.

“Ain’t that my line?” Jazz said quietly. Prowl didn’t flinch at the noise, which was a good sign. “M’fine Prowl. Let’s get you to the bath.” Just because they hadn’t overloaded didn’t mean Jazz was absolved of the responsibility of aftercare.

Jazz wasn’t fine. His shivers were getting worse, and without the sound of Prowl’s little purrs in his audios, he felt like he was missing a few systems.

“You’re not fine,” Prowl insisted. He levered himself up and wrapped his arms — direct plating contact! — around Jazz, drawing him close.

“Prowl don’t—”

“Helium,” Prowl insisted, tucking Jazz’s bumper against his and pulling him down onto the bed. He intertwined their legs and reached back to pull the blankets back over them. It wasn’t the tight, complete immobilization that had gotten Prowl to this point, but it was close. Jazz’s world once again shrank down to just him and his lover. Existence ended at the blankets. And Prowl’s temperature may never had reached the critical 215 degrees, but he  _ was _ running hot, even as his systems had slowed down into complete relaxation. That heat eased the cold ache in Jazz’s systems. He shuddered, almost sobbing into Prowl’s plating.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “Dunno why I’m such a mess right now.”

“That’s my line,” Prowl said quietly. “Tell me what’s going on.”

“S’called top-drop. I don’t, usually.” Like, never. “I dunno why it’s hittin’ me now.”

“What are you feeling?”

“Cold. In shock,” Jazz answered. There was no real benefit to hiding what was happening from Prowl. “Like I’m missin’ part of m’systems. Had an extra engine — yours — and I don’t no more. I’m supposed ta be takin’ care of you.”

“You did,” Prowl assured. “I felt so wonderful and safe. I am the  _ furthest _ from glitching —”

“Y’don’t  _ glitch,” _ Jazz interrupted. 

Prowl let out a huff of air that could have been a chuckle; Jazz breathed it in. “Nevertheless. I feel the closest to what I imagine normal to be that I have ever felt. I am relaxed. I am happy.  _ You _ did that. You  _ are _ taking care of me. Let me take care of you for a few minutes.”

It ran counter to everything Jazz had ever believed about the responsibilities of a dom and a sub, but he let Prowl hold him close, let his systems realign to the idea that that  _ purr purr purr _ wasn’t actually  _ part _ of him…

“You were the only thing in my world,” Prowl spoke up suddenly in the muffled quiet of under the blanket. “Sight, sound -- you were so  _ quiet _ \-- touch, movement… All of it was muffled, quiet, close. Nothing outside my plating at all. There was no pain, because there was nothing to  _ cause _ pain. Nothing at all existed. Except you. I felt you. Your spark, your contentment and love. That was the only thing that existed for me.”

Jazz shivered, still cold. He couldn’t imagine actually enjoying that… except he had, hadn’t he? He’d let go of everything outside himself and his lover to listen to Prowl’s systems. He’d become so focused on his lover, on his safety and contentment, that Prowl had become an extension of his own systems, a part of him, without him realizing it. It was strange and it was terrifying and he was certain he desperately wanted it to happen again if Prowl let him.

“Me too,” Jazz admitted. “You made these little contented sounds and I could hear them, even through the muffling and I just…” he trailed off. “You became my everything.” He shivered again. The blanket and Prowl’s heat were very much helping, but he was still shivering. He was looking forward to drawing up Prowl’s steaming-hot bath. “Then it ended.”

“Like you were missing an engine.”

“Yeah.”

Prowl held him closer. His engine was no longer making those  _ purr purr purr _ sounds. Instead Jazz heard the deeper rumbles of a fully conscious mech with a normal amount of tension. Prowl’s normal sounds, except Prowl was usually much more tense than what was “normal” for other mechs. It was still soothing to listen to, this lasting evidence of Prowl’s lack of stress. 

Despite himself, despite the shivering, Jazz relaxed. He was fine. Prowl was fine. Those systems weren’t  _ gone. _ They were starting to sound like the sounds another person made and that was fine because Prowl was a part of him, just not a  _ literal _ part of him...

Prowl ran his fingers over Jazz’s helm as his shivering eased further under the onslaught of heat and comfort Prowl provided. “Alright now?”

“Yeah.” It was true. “You?”

“Yes. Though if you’re up to it, I believe we could both use that bath — together.”

“Yeah.”


End file.
